


Nothing Collapses

by somuchcloser



Category: Queer as Folk (US), Queer as Folk (US) RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-09
Updated: 2012-09-09
Packaged: 2017-11-13 21:14:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/507779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somuchcloser/pseuds/somuchcloser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Whitman was gay, you know. Or at least, he was rumored to be... his work definitely points to a more fluid sexuality than most would have accepted in that day. Or in this one, depending on the person.”</p><p>“I think I remember that from school,” I say around the lid of my drink. Concentrate on drinking, not his body touching mine. </p><p>I watch him blow perfect smoke rings at the roof and he puts the joint in the ashtray and closes his eyes. He's quiet for a long time, and when he speaks again, his voice is gravelly. “'Loafe with me on the grass – loose the stop from your throat.'” He smiles, and I feel his arm fall to the seat, just next to mine. “'Not words, not music or rhyme I want – not custom or lecture, not even the best; only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.'” His hand touches mine gently, and I hold my breath as he grabs it, his thumb tracing slow circles on my palm. I remind myself for the hundredth time that this is just Gale; he's just a touchy person, it doesn't mean anything.</p><p>Set in first season.  Real Person Fiction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Collapses

**Author's Note:**

> My first Queer as Folk fic, an exercise in both pr0n and 1st person, and it's an RPF... yikes! Set in first season. Apologies to Gale and Randy, I know this never happened, or would happen, but you're both too damn hot not to fantasize about. Seeing as Gale and Randy are real people, they don't belong to me, and neither does QaF, or anything else revolving around said hotness. Damn.

I'm not the type of person who goes out of their way to get people to like me. Most of the time, another person's opinion of me means very little. I came out in high school, which means that I've dealt with enough shit (from students AND faculty) that I've learned to not care. Add that to the rejection I've faced in the industry (because eventually, even the best actor gets used to slammed doors and "we'll get back to you's")... and, well, you get the point. 

So given my natural inclination to just not give a fuck, especially when the person in question is boring, or judgmental, or straight....

Christ. This is going nowhere. What I mean is this: I didn't expect to care about his opinion of me. I mean, he's straight, and we work together, and he can be so... ugh. Standoffish, and borderline rude, and just ODD. And that's ME saying that, so you know it's true, because I resemble each and every one of those things. 

But I wanted him to like me, or at least to tolerate me. To think that I'm interesting, and not some lame kid. Because, yeah, he was... gorgeous. Not that I'd ever tell him that. And from the little bits of information that I'd gathered (which was tough, because the guy was not exactly big on sharing things about himself), he was... intriguing. Like a science experiment. I just wanted to get to know him a bit. It's better for chemistry, anyway, if we're comfortable around one another. 

At least that's what I told myself when I suggested we go out for a drink after work. It went well, really. Two beers each, lots of quiet, which was to be expected, I suppose. But then we started talking about music, and we actually like some of the same stuff. And books too; similar interests there. It was a start. 

So that's how it began. Once a week or so we'd go to this dive bar that was sort of in between our apartments, and we'd just talk. It was good. It was great, really. Once he'd had a drink or two in him he'd get... shit, silly is the best word, not that most people would get that. But when Gale actually feels comfortable, really comfortable, not just the level of "I'm putting up with you all because it's funny, in a strange way," that most people saw... well, he's clever. And charming. And unbelievably hot. 

So I was sort of falling in love with him. Which was bad, because if I had questioned his sexuality when I first met him, hearing stories of some of his hetero fuckfests cleared that up real fast. Not that we really talked about that stuff, except for that night we both got really smashed. It was at his place, after our customary two beers at the bar. He'd wanted to show me this signed Tennessee Williams' play he'd bought online, but I never actually saw it. Three hours and way too many drinks later, I must have passed out on his couch, because I woke up with a splitting headache and a nasty case of dry mouth at around 8 the next morning. But I had a blanket covering me, and a glass of water on the table next to me. 

All of that was months ago. Months of drinks and talks and more and more nights at his place or my place, just hanging out. I found out that Gale was shit at poker and amazing at remembering song lyrics, even when completely shitfaced. He could quote Rumi, some Sufi mystic from the thirteen century, ad infinitum. He smoked pot more days than not, but only the good stuff; no ditch weed. And he was the least homophobic straight guy I'd ever met. It wasn't just the show, either. I mean, it's hard to be homophobic and still be able to pull off some of the scenes we have to do. But even when it was just the two of us, he was comfortable touching. Honestly, sometimes he was too comfortable. Shit, this guy is gorgeous, there was no doubt about that, and his sexuality just radiates, you know? Like it's effortless. Which is great, unless you're the guy sitting next to him, praying away a boner and trying to rearrange your legs and your drink so it's not ungodly obvious that you're so. Fucking. Hard. 

I think he knows this is more than just a friendship to me. I have tried my best to push the feelings away, but hell, that's not happening. And he has to have figured out that he turns me on. I mean, at work I can shrug it off, blame it on friction or whatever. But when we're sitting on the couch, watching a movie at his place, and he pulls me down on the couch towards him, just to get 'comfortable'... God, Gale, you have to know. I can do my best to hide an erection, any gay boy that's had to change in the guy's locker room learns some tricks for that, but calming my heart beat and my breathing... that's a lot more difficult. 

So when he asked me to come to this bookstore he found, of course I said yes. Because I'm in love with him, and I want to spend all my free time with him, at least in theory. In actuality, we both need to be alone sometimes, but still... 

Shit, I hate this. He's wrapping up his last scene for the day, should be done any minute, and I'm still in my trailer deciding which ironic t-shirt to wear. Like it matters. Like it will make any difference at all. I end up picking the blue one, of course, because he's complimented it before. Okay, so it wasn't a compliment, but he mentioned it, and that's the same to my junior-high-school-girl mind. 

It wouldn't be this difficult if he was just gay. There are signs, signals, that are learned and often utilized. The tilt of a head, a second glance, things that can show interest, or straight up suggest a quick fuck. But he's straight, and he's Gale, so normal (not to be confused with heteronormative) gay social norms would not register with him even if he was gay. 

There's a knock on the door of the trailer and I know it's him. Even his knock is distinctive, ridiculous as that may sound. I grab my wallet, a hoodie, and I'm ready. 

He's in jeans and a white t-shirt, classic Brian relaxed style, but I know these are his clothes, and not his character's. The jeans aren't some fancy Italian brand, and I can almost guarantee that shirt was bought in a package of six. He smiles at me, completely calm, and I'm thankful for all the years of drama classes, because I'm pretty sure I'm pulling off casual quite nicely. It's just that this is the first time we've gone out in public together to somewhere other than a bar. And I know that sounds stupid, but fuck it. I'm excited. 

He tells me I can leave my car on the lot, that he'll drop me off back here later so we don't have to take two vehicles. I'm fine with that, obviously. The lauded indie bookstore is on the other side of town, and we spend the ride over quiet, listening to Morrissey sing about double-decker buses and no, I don't really want to die like this, but I don't want to go home either. At least not alone. 

We get there and it really is everything he's told me. I mean, there are books, obviously, but the whole atmosphere is just... god, it's good. Soft light (just enough to read by comfortably, but dim enough that you feel led to get lost among the racks of novels, plays, and short stories), good music, and really, really delicious smelling coffee permeates the place. We separate at first, and I'm drawn to the plays, naturally, while Gale heads off who knows where. He finds me almost an hour later, although it seems like only minutes. I'm caught up in the middle of a really fantastic scene when I feel his warm breath on my neck, his body softly pressed against mine as he reads over my shoulder. I hold back the shiver that threatens to give me away, and I swear I hear him breathe out a laugh. A heavy arm goes over my shoulder, and there's a paper cup offered to me. 

“I normally don't go for the over-priced expensive shit those so-called cafes try to pass off as coffee, but you need to try this. It's a dark chocolate mocha with freshly ground cinnamon and a dash of cayenne pepper, and it's so fucking good you'll want to come in your pants.” 

I turn around in the small space he's left for me, grabbing the cup as I go. I peer at it to distract myself from looking at him, because Gale suggesting that I could come in my pants from anything right now is not a good thing. 

I sip the drink and can't hold back the sigh that breaks through my lips. It is really, really good. Not come-in-my-pants good, but damn, that's the best coffee I've ever had, if something this sweet can be considered coffee, anyway. The cayenne hits last, and I feel my body warming from the combination of coffee, chocolate, cinnamon, cayenne, and Gale. He's still right there, right in front of me, and even backed up all the way to the shelves, I have to look up at him when I tell him how good it is. How much I like it. 

He cocks an eyebrow and looks down at my book. “Going to get that, or are we good?”

I look down at the thing in my hand, having forgotten I was even holding it. I want it, yeah, but right now I can't seem to stomach the idea of waiting in line, or even moving. I put it down on an empty shelf and shrug. “I can always get it later.”

He nods, and starts to the door. I follow, and suddenly wish I had bought the book after all. It would have been a good reason to say here a little longer, basking in the warmth of the shop, the smell of coffee and literature, the closeness of my co-star and friend. I'm not ready to call it a night.

It's cold outside, and Gale turns the heat on full blast when we climb into his truck. He doesn't put it in drive, though; he just sits there. 

“So what did you think?” he asks. 

“About the store? Yeah, I really liked it. There was so much to look at, I could have stayed for hours, just wandering and reading.” I sip my coffee and smile. Shit, that really is delicious. “I was skimming this play, and it got me thinking about doing a play on hiatus. I mean, I had been considering it, but I really think it could be good for me. Get me back to my roots, or whatever.”

He just nods, thoughtful. 

“Did you get anything?” I ask. 

“Yeah,” he says, and hands me a small, hardcover book. Of course. Gale doesn't seem the type to buy paperback best sellers. This book feels old, even though I'm fairly sure it's a newer edition; the dark green cover is barely distinguishable in the light from the shop window, but I can see the title. 

“Leaves of Grass?”

“Yeah. Have you read it?”

I shrug. “Bits and pieces in school, never the whole thing. Have you?”

He just nods, a slow smile creeping over his face. He turns towards me, pulling his long legs onto the bench seat between us and leaning back against the door. “'I have perceived that to be with those I like is enough, to stop in company with the rest at evening is enough. To be surrounded by beautiful, curious, breathing, laughing flesh is enough. To pass among them or touch any one, or rest my arm ever so lightly round his or her neck for a moment, what is this then? I do not ask any more delight, I swim in it as in a sea.'” 

I swallow, feeling warmth creeping up my cheeks. I don't remember reading that sort of Whitman. O Captain, sure. Suddenly the truck seems small, the heat from Gale's leg pressing against mine burns, and I'm definitely aware of the tightening in my pants. 

“You, uh... you're really good at memorization,” I say, lamely. 

“With some things,” he concedes. “He was gay, you know. Or at least, he was rumored to be. He never admitted to it, because to do so would have been scandalous, probably even dangerous. But his work definitely points to a more fluid sexuality than most would have accepted in that day. Or in this one, depending on the person.”

“I think I remember that from school,” I say around the lid of my drink. Concentrate on drinking, not his body touching mine. 

He slides further in his seat, his legs weaving over mine as he settles himself down. He pulls out a joint and a lighter from his jacket pocket and lights the paper, pulls in a deep drag and holds it for the longest time. He hands it to me but I just shake my head. I know he's surprisingly capable of driving safely even after he smokes, but it makes me nervous. When we're ready to head back to the lot, I'll offer to drive, and he'll tell me he's fine, and I'll agree, yeah, I know you're good, but I never get to drive a truck, and he'll relent. 

I watch him blow perfect smoke rings at the roof and he puts the joint in the ashtray and closes his eyes. He's quiet for a long time, and when he speaks again, his voice is gravelly. “'Loafe with me on the grass – loose the stop from your throat.'” He smiles, and I feel his arm fall to the seat, just next to mine. “'Not words, not music or rhyme I want – not custom or lecture, not even the best; only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.'” His hand touches mine gently, and I hold my breath as he grabs it, his thumb tracing slow circles on my palm. I remind myself for the hundredth time that this is just Gale; he's just a touchy person, it doesn't mean anything. “'I mind how once we lay, such a transparent summer morning; how you settled your head athwart my hips, and gently turned over upon me, and parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue to my bare-stript heart.'” 

I realize my eyes are closed and I'm almost dizzy from holding my breath. I feel like breathing, talking, anything would be wrong right now. I want to hold onto this feeling, this deep pull in my stomach that makes me feel sick and so goddamn alive I could cry. I draw in oxygen slowly, attempting a facade of normalcy. No, that wasn't the most sexy thing I've ever heard. No, I don't feel closer to you in this moment than I've ever felt with anyone, even past lovers. No, I'm not going to scare my straight co-worker. 

I'm concentrating so deeply on not fucking this up that I gasp when I feel him sit up and move closer. I keep my eyes closed, unwilling to look into his eyes, knowing that the truth will be written there. 

And then I feel warm, soft lips on mine, and I taste coffee and cannabis. A hesitant tongue touches gently on my bottom lip and I respond because I have no other choice. I am in love with this man, and even if this is a mistake.... well hell, I'm going to make it. 

It starts out slow and quickly becomes so much more, and I'm moaning and clawing at him and god, this should be so much more embarrassing than it is, because my need for him is so obviously apparent. But he's matching me, and searching for more in the space of my mouth, the angles of our bodies as he pushes closer to me. He pulls away, then, and I keep my eyes closed, ready for the breakdown. But then I feel like the truck pop into reverse and we're driving. I pull on my seatbelt and wait.

When I realize we're not going back to the studio, I can't keep the smile off my face. We're going towards his apartment, and I try not to wonder what will happen there. Maybe we'll talk about this, or we'll kiss some more, or....

The short walk to the front door seems twice as long as normal, and he pushes it open and walks straight to the bedroom, kicking off his shoes. I start to follow and then stop, not wanting to assume... well, anything. When he realizes I haven't followed, he backtracks and grabs me, slamming me against the wall of the hallway. His lips cover mine again, and he fingers are at my belt, pulling and snapping it out of the belt loops. He moves me towards the door of the bedroom, and his shirt is off, and he's working on mine now, and I feel the edge of the bed at the back of my knees and I fall. 

It's different than I had imagined in all my masturbatory fantasies. He's not soft and gentle with me, but he's not an animal. He alternates between intense passion and careful touches, and the noises he make will never leave me. He pulls his pants off, and then his underwear, and I see him for the first time completely erect and fuck, he's so goddamn beautiful. He unbuttons my jeans and then looks at me, waiting. And I love him even more now.

I nod and then I'm naked, painfully hard and oh so aware of my body. He stands back, observing, and I push the palms of my hands into my eyes, not knowing what to do or say. He pulls them away and links our fingers, studying me, my body. When I shyly smile, he replaces his eyes with his mouth, and he's kissing my neck, my chest, my nipples and hipbones. I recall his quoted words from less than an hour earlier, how his voice was dark and raspy when he described plunging a tongue to a bare-stript heart. Fuck. If anything in my life is poetry... it's this, right now. His mouth on my skin, his hands wandering, learning, exploring. When he breathes warm air on my cock and hesitantly takes me into his mouth, I feel my balls tighten and I could kill myself for almost losing it this early in the game. I feel his throat convulse as he realizes just seconds after I do how close I am, and his previous hesitation is gone, and now he's got his hand on me pumping in time with his mouth, and he's licking and sucking and I can't help it, I tap him on the head, trying to warn him, but he pulls me all the way into his warm, wet mouth and I shoot, long and hard, down his throat. 

I'm hovering between consciousness and outer space when I feel slicked fingers cautiously approaching my hole. Even in this state, I can't help it; I push into it, seeking out more. We both groan when one of his fingers gently pushes its way in, and I thrust down onto it, needing the stretch. Not long after, not long enough, really, but I don't mind, another finger joins it, and he quickly moves both in and out me. He brushes against something inside me and I yelp, my abs curling up as my shoulders fly off the bed. 

“That...” his voice cracks, “that's it, right?”

I look at him then, really look at those always sure hazel eyes and I see the doubt there. “Yes,” I manage, and I'm amazed at the tone of my voice, the want there. “Yes, please, there.” 

He brushes my prostate again and my cock is hard once more, and that feeling in my stomach, the deep pull and ache, it's become my new normal; it's all I know. He slowly moves his fingers inside me, pulling apart, pushing together, stretching. It's not enough, I need more prep, but I can't wait any longer, and I tell him, “Now.” 

He grabs the condom on the bedside table and I look over to see the opened bottle of lube there, realizing he's already used it on me, didn't even have to search for it, and I wonder if this was planned. Did he have a beautiful plan of seduction, or did this just happen? Did he know he wanted this? Is he sure?

I grab his wrist once he's slicked his covered dick with the lube, and I can feel the blunt tip of him at my entrance. “Gale,” I bite out, “I need you to be sure about this, okay?” A low moan escapes me, and I'm afraid he'll change his mind, I'm afraid this is it, and although it's more than I ever could have asked for, I need... more.

His hands reach down to grab my hips and he slowly pushes forward, breaching my muscle. It burns; it's been a long time, but I welcome the sting, amazed that HE is the one causing it. I see the sweat break out on his brow as he slowly pushes in, doing his best to be gentle. I can't take that, not now, and I thrust up, impaling myself on him. 

He stills over me completely, my legs squeezing his waist, asking him without words to _please god, move dammit._ I reach up and pull him down for a kiss, and it's sweet and soft, and then he moves, and I don't know how long I can last. 

Ebb and flow, thrust and pull, and I knew that natural rhythm he displayed when we played sex for the cameras had to translate into pure talent. His cock in me, filling me, feels like possession and freedom. 

All too soon I feel the telltale signs of orgasm approaching, and I try to slow it down, bite my lip and think of England, anything to delay the end. Gale must realize what is happening because he just grins down at me, open and totally honest, and then he leans over and kisses bruises on my lips as his hips slam into me, brutally claiming me in a way I'd only dreamed he could do. 

Once, twice, three times more and he stops, grunting loudly, his cock pushed in as far as it will go, and I feel him throbbing as he comes in me. That's all that I need, and I erupt once more, my second orgasm almost painful in such a short span of time. When he pulls out carefully and ties off the condom, I look away, unwilling to deal with his reaction. But I should have known it would be okay, because it's Gale, and he never does anything he doesn't want to do, and his soft kiss and sweaty forehead remind me of that.

There aren't many words after, but there is skin on skin, and heavy breathing, and he holds me loosely in his arms as we drift off to sleep.

The next morning he's up before me, and I know this because I feel him hovering above me. I don't know what's happening, so I slowly open one eye, and he's on all fours surrounding me, his face inches from mine. I have to laugh at the ridiculous smile on his face, and when I do, he leans down and kisses me, and I know this is anything but a mistake.


End file.
